The Old Flute-Player eBook

“There is but one thing which will lighten the
severity of the bad girl’s punishment,”
said Mrs. Vanderlyn, didactically.

“And that, Madame?”

“The immediate restitution of the ring.
She is here, now, is she not?”

“Yes, she is here, but—­”

The poor old man looked helplessly around him.
The whole thing seemed too terrible to be believed.
He wondered if some dreadful nightmare did not hold
him prisoner and half expected, as he let his agonized
old eyes roam round the room, to wake up, presently,
and find the episode was but a dreadful dream.

“Call her; ask her to give it up—­”

“No,” said the old man softly, careful
that his voice should not rise so that it could easily
be audible in the adjoining room, “I will not
ask her to give up the ring, for the ring is not in
her possession. She would not know of what I
spoke. She would look at me, my Anna would, with
soft reproach in her sad eyes and wonder if her poor
old father had gone mad to bring an accusation such
as that against her soul—­so pure—­so
innocent—­so—­”

“Certainly she has the ring.” The
woman, now, was definitely sneering at his protestations
of his daughter’s worthiness.

“No; she has not got the ring. I—­have
it—­”

From his pocket he drew forth his hand and in it lay
the little box. Out of the box, with trembling
fingers, he removed the ring, and held it up, smiling
at her, as he did so, with a wondrous look of triumph—­not
the look of one who has just placed his feet, quite
consciously, upon the road that leads to prison, but
that of one who has won victory against great odds.
She could not understand that look.

And that was not so strange, for on the face of the
old flute-player the expression was like few this
selfish old world ever sees—­the expression
of complete self-abnegation, of absolute self-sacrifice
for pure and holy love.

“The ring, Herr Kreutzer!” Mrs. Vanderlyn
exclaimed, in relief, sure, now, for the first time,
of the recovery of the precious trinket. “The
ring! She’s given it to you!”

Herr Kreutzer laid the box upon the table and drew
back with studied calm to gaze at her reflectively,
as is necessary to a man who, as he stands and talks,
must fashion from his fancy a cute fiction logical
enough and clear enough to save from overwhelming sorrow
one whom he loves better than he loves himself.
“I tell you the whole truth,” he said,
“on one condition. One condition, mind you,
Madame—­and that condition must be kept.
It is that she—­my Anna—­shall
never be disturbed, annoyed—­”

The woman shook her head with emphasis. Self-righteous
and indignant, feeling that her confidence had been
betrayed as well as her ring stolen, she was determined
not to let the guilty girl escape. “I cannot
promise that,” she said with emphasis, “for
she is guilty.”